The Debt
by ladyofdarkstar
Summary: Thrawn/Maris. Sort of. When Mara Jade is captured by the Imperials over the planet of Abregado-Rae, she brings along a companion that stirs to life old memories in the Grand Admiral and the chance to repay a debt he thought long forgotten. However, a second debt is also in play, one held tightly by Talon Karrde. Set during Dark Force Rising.
1. Chapter 1 - Ghosts

A/N: Written as a gift for AgelessGrace66 and her challenge to write a Thrawn fic based on a lovesong. I chose "Making Love out of Nothing at All" by Air Supply. The inspiration for my Thrawn interpretation comes from the amazing work of Chissscientist (love your Thrawn!). This is dedicated to all the people that are fans of Thrawn/Maris pairings. With a little sprinkling of Karrde, Mara, and Luke thrown in for fun. Please be kind with reviews, as this is the first time I've ever tried to write from Thrawn's POV. As always, please let me know what I am doing right or wrong.

SPOILER ALERT: The opening scene is taken from Dark Force Rising by Timothy Zahn. 95% of the dialogue between Mara and Thrawn comes from that book. For those that haven't read it, this scene comes when Thrawn has captured Mara and is currently hunting Talon Karrde's smuggling organization. Mara is trying to make a deal to save Karrde from Thrawn's wrath.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

He got an acknowledgement and keyed off the circuit. "Very well, Emperor's Hand," he said, looking up at Mara again. "We have an agreement. The Dark Force for the lifting of our death mark against Karrde. How long will it take you to return to Karrde's current base?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Ella saw Mara hesitate, and her jaw nearly dropped. Was Mara really going to give this man so much as an inkling as to where to find Karrde? Had she suddenly forgotten just what Thrawn was capable of doing? As if the pure white of his uniform wasn't indication enough! Her mind started to flash, to race through all the things her mother had shared with her about him. About Commander Mitth'raw'nurudo of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet, now known as Imperial Grand Admiral Thrawn…

The name and title inspired mixed emotions of utter elation and absolute dread. Could this really be the man that a young Maris Ferasi once held in such utter esteem? If it was, what in the known galaxy was he doing _here_? Didn't the Chiss race as a whole harbor an isolation doctrine?

Part of her wanted to know, wanted to know desperately if only to appease her mother's spirit. But the other part just wanted to get the kriff off this ship alive. The man her mother had described was an utter contrast to the stories she'd heard of this Grand Admiral. They just couldn't possibly be the same man unless…

… unless the stories about the Grand Admiral were all crap. Unless there was something more to this man that what the New Republic led them all to believe.

Ella wasn't certain what made her feel worse in that moment: the idea that she and Mara were possibly betraying the confidence of Talon Karrde, the smuggler chief that had been like a father to her, or the notion that they were the ones that had been betrayed by a brand new government that was supposed to have the galaxy's best interests at heart. Which it couldn't, not if it was spreading lies and propaganda about the Empire. Wouldn't that, in turn, make it just as bad as the enemy it was fighting?

She shook her head slowly, deciding to put that question to rest until other wiser people could answer it for her. She stopped gaping at Mara like an idiot and lowered her eyes to the deck, making an art form out of studying the impeccably clean surface.

"On the _Etherway_, about three days," Mara was saying. "Two and a half if I push it."

"I suggest you do so," Thrawn said. "Since you have exactly eight days to obtain the location and bring it back here to me."

Mara stared at him. "Eight days? But that—"

"Eight days. Or I find him and get the location my way."

Ella jerked at that, eyes snapping up to Mara and the Grand Admiral, unable to stop that reflexive maneuver. Everyone knew, or at least heard tell, of Imperial interrogation techniques. The thought of what could happen to Karrde and all the information that he would spill under those drugs and tortures… A second shiver ran up her spine that she didn't bother to hide. A lot of people would die, then. A lot of good people.

She suddenly understood why Mara was willing to trade what she was offering. A fleet of ships for the lives of thousands of people. It was worth it no matter which way you stacked the chips.

A dozen possible retorts rushed through Mara's mind. Another look at those glowing red eyes silenced all of them. "I'll do what I can," she managed. Turning, she headed back across the room.

"I'm sure you will," he said after her. "And afterward, we'll sit down and have a long talk together. About your years away from Imperial service… and why you've been so long in returning."

That was her cue, Ella supposed, turning to follow Mara out the door. Determined to slide out of his presence before she was noticed. Maybe, if Fate was with them, they'd be able to wiggle out of this deal. Karrde was exceptionally good at finding loopholes in established bargains. Hopefully he would find a way to—

"Tell me, Mara Jade," the Grand Admiral called after them, a slightly amused tone in his voice. "How many people does it take to deliver a message?"

Mara froze. There was fear and sorrow in her eyes, and an intense anger simmering to life just beneath those other emotions. "Look," she began, voice taking on a hard edge again. But fear tempered it, made it loose some of its teeth. "This is a difficult system to navigate through. I need a co-pilot."

He lifted an eyebrow. "I'm certain that can be arranged if you feel you are not up to the task, Emperor's Hand."

Something shifted in Mara, something that had her dropping the reasonable tone she'd so struggled to maintain in his presence. Dropping the reasonable words as well and going for blunt honesty. "You promised the death mark would be lifted," she bit out, grabbing Ella's arm and shoving her not too kindly towards the door. "Why do you want her? She doesn't know anything. And damaging one of Karrde's people would go against our bargain!"

"Wouldn't it, though?" He answered, voice starting to frost over again. "I never stated that your young friend would come to harm. She will remain here—" He lifted his hand, cutting off Mara's coming rant—"as a guest of the Empire. If you truly intend to keep our bargain, then she has nothing to fear."

"And if not?" Mara snarled out. "You'll kill her after you sift every bit of information out of her."

Thrawn shook his head, one precise movement from the left to the right. "You'll soon realize that my Empire is not in the habit of wasting resources. I consider lives a rather powerful and precious resource," he replied, a hint of true anger starting to thaw that cold aloofness. "Now go, Mara Jade. Keep our bargain, or you will learn the limit of my generosity."

Ella stood there, trying not to show her fear, as Mara did the only thing she could in that situation. She nodded stiffly. And then tossed Ella a look that was somewhere between fear and a command to stay strong. Then Mara Jade walked out that door. And she was alone with the man she knew only through her mother's stories and half-hearted New Republic propaganda.

* * *

His guest. She was his… guest.

It was strange how things came together full circle, she mused as she took the two steps back into the room, planting her back firmly against the nearest wall. He had said the same words to her mother all those years ago, inviting her and her companions to remain as guests until he could ascertain whether or not humans were a threat to his people. Jorj Car'das, Dubrak Quennto, and Maris Ferasi weren't idiots. They knew he used the term "guest" to soften the fact that they were captives of the Chiss Acendency, guilty of accidentally trespassing across borders in which they were not welcomed.

Their sentence for their crime would depend on what Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo found on their ship, and of course, their actions while they were his "guests."

Ella took deep breaths, letting them out slowly, quietly. Unlike her mother, Ella knew what her sentence would be. Death at worst or indentured servitude on some prison planet at best. The Empire was notorious for its hatred of smugglers. And she was a smuggler, like her mother had been. Unlike her mother, Ella had willingly plied her trade in Imperial territory. Willingly crossed its boundaries, knowing full well the laws against such things. Her fate, it seemed, hinged on Mara's ability to convince Karrde to make this deal, and her own behavior while a "guest" of the Grand Admiral.

Maybe her situation and her mother's hadn't been all that dissimilar. Especially with the way that glowing red gaze stared at her in silence. Waiting… but for what? And how in the stars had he come to serve the Empire? The question was near to driving her mad.

A thousand different conversation-starters danced behind her lips as the silence stretched thin. But somehow saying "hell of a day, isn't it, your Admiralness," or "how about that last swoop race? Was that guy a real piece of work or what?" seemed hardly an appropriate way to engage him in conversation. Not to mention that there was something wrong with her eyes. For the life of her, she couldn't seem to peel them away from their eternal vigilance on the floor. The orbs felt glued there, staring at durasteel buffed to a near mirror shine.

And all the while, the silence remained.

She tried to tell herself that she was content to spend the rest of her life rooted to that one spot, staring down at the floor and her boots. They were dirty, she noted—the boots, not the floor. Speckled here and there with hyperdive grease, stained in places from deck polish and various drinks spilled on them from equally as varied nights at the cantina with some of the crew. That got her eyes moving, glancing at the hem of her jumpsuit, at the frayed strings and spotty stains there, too. Her mother would be so disappointed in her, she thought with a frown. Maris had always been lovely, made up presentable even when sleeping.

Ella lost count of the stains by the time she reached her knees. Compared to the rest of this Star Destroyer and her crew, she looked like a mish-mash of space debris. Besides, wasn't a person supposed to be dressed nicely when in the presence of a Grand Admiral? She wasn't too sure on that one. Imperial etiquette wasn't high on the list of required reading for smugglers.

"You are Loriella Ferasi, daughter of Miras Ferasi."

It wasn't a question. But she knew he wanted an answer nonetheless. "Yes, sir," she said softly, eyes locking back on that safe patch of deck plating once again.

"Look at me when I speak to you, Loriella."

Her head snapped up so fast she thought she gave herself whiplash. The rich unforgettable command in his tone, even in a simple statement had her ready to jump. His eyes glittered with renewed interest as hers met his, and she realized what had just happened. He hadn't spoken that last sentence in Basic.

It had been in his native language. It had been in Cheunh.

"So I see your mother taught you everything," he continued in that same language.

Ella frowned slightly, struggling to pick out the words and meaning in that last statement. Two months of intense language lessons that he'd given her mother did not make for a complete understanding of a language. Not by a long shot. And to her, his words came off with a faint accent. Though, to be fair, she'd only ever heard her mother speak them until now, so it could have been her human tongue that gave the words the faint lilting tone. Instead of the crisp, too clear edges in his voice.

She bit her lower lip uncertainly. But there was nothing he could do to her mother now, if he was suddenly displeased with the teaching… "Yes, sir," she replied, forcing herself to keep eye contact.

"Where is your mother now?"

"Dead, sir."

"How?"

This time she dared close her eyes, unwilling to let him see the pain. "Alderaan, sir. She and father and…" Ella cleared her throat. "Everyone, sir."

He seemed to consider that. "How long have you worked for Karrde?"

It was an abrupt change in topic, at least to her understanding. She tried to call to mind what her mother had told her about him, his people. Every word, every nuance, meant something. If she stayed focused, she could see where he was going with this. "Six years, sir."

"And before that?"

"Here and there, to be honest. Any place that needed a good mechanic." Why was he asking? Didn't his Intelligence division have a detailed file on every member of Karrde's organization, considering he was trying to hunt them down like wild animals? "Never any place for too long before that."

"Why?"

She bit her lip again. "Never really fit in anywhere."

"That may change in your future," he said, and her eyes lifted to his on reflex.

There was a tight smile on his lips, his eyes unreadable. But his hands… She'd been around enough intelligent calculating men in her time with Karrde to read his hands. They were steepled before him, the first two fingers on each hand tapping together thoughtfully. Indicating that he'd come to a decision about her, one that existed outside of the agreement he had reached with Mara. And then the exact wording of his agreement sunk in.

_The Dark Force for the lifting of our death mark against Karrde..._ _Our_, as in the Empire. Not _I_, as in he was free to carry whatever personal grudge he wished. And the fact that he promised not to hunt to them to death anymore didn't necessarily mean they were all free to go. He simply promised he wouldn't kill them. And there were so many things a man in his position could do that were worse than death.

"Yes," he said, as if reading her thoughts, inclining his head slightly. "I see you understand perfectly. Did your mother tell you that she once saved my life?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Then you understand that I still owe her a debt. That debt was not erased with her passing. It merely transferred ownership."

She stared at him, a growing horror climbing up her spine. "To me?"

"Yes."

"I release you from that debt," she spouted immediately. A favor… from a man in his position… It wasn't the spiceload that it sounded. In the hands of someone like Talon, it would have been worth more than this ship. In the hands of someone like her, a badly inexperienced young woman who only wanted to be left alone? It was too powerful, and way too dangerous.

His lips twitched, the tight smile becoming somewhat amused. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, Miss Ferasi. I will repay my debt to your mother," his comm. board pinged and he glanced down at it, the smile fading slightly. "However, I am afraid we are out of time for the moment. I have arranged quarters for you. If you are willing, we will speak again over dinner tonight."

It sounded like a request. If she said no, he might very well let it go. But… what price would she pay for that refusal later?

A man in a black uniform entered the room, snapping out a salute to the Grand Admiral. Who, incidentally, was now focused on the readouts on his double display ring.

"My name is Lieutenant Strackton," the man next to her identified himself. "I will escort you to your quarters."

She let him lead her away.

* * *

He waited until the doors closed, taking the young Loriella Ferasi from his view. And still he waited several heartbeats before glancing upward. Staring at the ghosts of his own imagination in that vacant space between where Loriella had stood and the door. It had been years since he'd let himself think of Maris for more than a few minutes at most. She was tied to too much of his past, too many memories that started off sweet yet bled to ashes all too quickly.

And now he had Maris's daughter in his hand. The memories couldn't remain locked under his iron control in the wake of that knowledge. A flick of a switch had the reports on Mara's ship and his coming battle plans sinking back into electronic memory, replaced with a selection of art that he only viewed in his darkest moments. Only in those very rare infuriating moments when he needed to remind himself that he was not hated by all.

Perhaps it was best to revisit the past now, instead of letting it nag at him, proving a distraction at the most inopportune time.

Like Loriella's appearance had been.

Correlian art appeared on the walls, sprinkled here and there with the artwork of a few outer rim worlds. The artwork that he and Maris had discovered together on that Vagaari slave ship so long ago. He leaned back in his command chair, eyes slowly closing as he prepared to unleash the memories he often ignored. A small ironic smile touched his lips as those pieces of his past came into sharp focus. Ironic as these were the memories he often wished would fade. He could barely remember his childhood, when he and his brother Thrass had been young boys dreaming of being adopted into one of the Ruling Families. At times even Thrass's face blurred in his mind, the image of his brother fraying as the years separated them.

But Maris was always crystal clear, called up from the mists of time as if he had glimpsed her but yesterday.

She had become synonymous with kindness in his mind, with acceptance during his long years of exile on that uninhabited world. Her memory a comfort when the madness of loneliness started to flirt with the edges of his sanity. His focus on his goals was what kept that madness truly at bay, to be certain, his desire to protect the Chiss Ascendancy the fire that kept his heart alive and his mind sharp. But Maris has been the tempering of that flame, reminding him that he wasn't a monster, that what he wanted for his people wasn't the horror they had made it out to be.

In the darkness of those years, staring up at the stars as he attempted to sleep, it was her eyes that whispered to him instead of his former wife. Mitth'ari'sedai had been beautiful, nearly perfect in his people's view of appearances. Her voice had been charming, mesmerizing, and her smile when it was announced that they were matched as husband and wife equally as lovely. And when he fell from grace, her frown and cold looks of disapproval had been equally as ugly. She had been rematched to another trail born adoptee of the Mitth family before his tribunal was even concluded.

She had forgotten him and their years together in the blink of an eye.

Maris had not, he now knew. If only because she had taught her daughter everything he had taught her.

His eyes opened, staring at the works of art, breathing slowly and steadily through the weight that appeared around his heart. To anyone else, his visage was that of unconcerned calm. Meditative even. His control that strong, that unshakably firm. Inside, he mourned. It was always a possibility that Maris would have died already. Smuggling was an occupation that did not lend itself to longevity. But he had always held out hope that she had left Captain Quennto, that she had gone on to marry a man worthy of her attentions, to have children.

When he was rescued from his exile, when he joined the Empire and rose quickly through its ranks, he knew it would have been too dangerous to contact her. To even check up on her progress through life would have assigned a death mark to her head. Imperial politics was vicious even when it was at its most kind, and out of necessity he had become an active participant in the Royal Court politics. His interest in anyone had been viewed as a tool to use against him. He owed her too much to put her through such things.

But he had never dreamed that she would have died on Alderaan. That this war would have consumed her.

The glow of his eyes intensified and he sat up in his chair, staring at the holographic image of the painting they had spent hours debating over when she was his guest onboard the Crustai base in Chiss territory. This war had killed her, had taken away one of the brightest and best things in his life. He would be the one to end it, to bring this so-called New Republic down and fold it back into the Empire where it belonged. He would see to it that Maris Ferasi's death was not empty, that her death had been for nothing.

His eyes shifted to that empty space between the door and his command chair, where the young woman that had shattered the chains around these memories had stood. He would personally see to it that Loriella Ferasi lived a long and safe life. That goal pacified the pressure in his chest, smoothed over the rough edges of that loss until it, too, could be wedged into that dark place in his heart. In a rare flight of fancy, he could almost see Maris standing where Loriella had stood, nodding approval to his goals. Thanking him for protecting the daughter she had left behind.

It was enough.

His fingers deftly pressed the buttons on his double display ring, calling back the reports he had previously been reading. And lost himself to the work that would ensure victory for those he swore to protect.


	2. Chapter 2 - Little Star

A/N: Thank you for sticking around with this story, the reviews and the favorites! It's rather fun to write from Thrawn's perspective for a change, and I welcome all constructive criticisms in how to make him more true to canon. Please let me know how I am doing! This is the second chapter in the song challenge, this one inspired by Mandolin Rain by Bruce Hornsby. As ever, much thanks to Chissscientist and her interpretation of Thrawn. Great inspiration!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

The quarters Ella was given were too grand for her. That was evident by the stricken look on her face, and the way she nearly backpedaled into Lieutenant Strackton. At least the man was graceful enough to catch her by the shoulders before she did something as embarrassing as trip over her own feet or step on his. And he was kind enough not to mention the incident, gently pushing her forward until she was all the way into the living room area of the suite.

Or perhaps, it wasn't as gentle and kind as her addled mind first thought.

"Why you?" she asked, spinning around defensively. "Why a Stormtrooper Lieutenant to escort me here?"

She caught the drifting thoughts as they played through his green eyes, running past the absolute truth and onto a politically correct adaptation of it. "A guest of Admiral Thrawn deserves no less," he said tactfully, letting his eyes fill with feigned confusion. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm not a guest. I'm a smuggler and a hostage, and one that will be killed by that same Grand Admiral if my associates don't do as he asks. So are you going to lock me into this room, too? That's what the last captain did when he brought Mara and I onto his ship. He locked us in our quarters for three days."

He shrugged his shoulders marginally. "I have my orders, Miss Ferasi,." He said, hands clasped behind his back. A pose that was meant to be reassuring and yet somehow lent deadliness to his posture

Like he could snap her neck and return to that same spot, that same stance, before she even realized she was dead. It reminded her of what her mother had said about her first encounter with then Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo. The deadly grace, the surety in his eyes. The absolute knowledge that he was in control of the situation, was merely entertaining her attempts to delay his departure or solicit information from him. Knowing full well that both were useless and yet letting her drama play out for purposes unknown.

Maris had been smart enough to understand these things, versed in political etiquette from the highest artistic universities that Corellia offered. She and Jorj Car'das had spotted the steel-like trap of Mitth'raw'nuruodo's words during their first meeting, had been intelligent enough to play out the formal diplomatic conversations of a First Contact situation with a new species. Eventually earning the trust and friendship of this new race and the Commander that held them captive. Yet her mother had earned more… so much more.

Her mother could have run circles around this young Lieutenant, had him spilling all his secrets before he knew what was happening.

Ella didn't have the advantage of such an education, not after the Empire had killed her parents and stolen the bright future that had been ahead of her. Those thoughts fueled the fire in her heart, emboldened her when all prudent wisdom indicated that she should shut her mouth. It kept her eyes steady on his, kept her from flinching away from the rapidly fading patience in that flat detached stare.

"That isn't an answer to my question."

"It's the only answer I am permitted to give, Miss Ferasi."

"But—"

"If you need anything, Miss Ferasi," he interrupted and gestured to the small communications station on the table between two elegant chairs. "Please use this comm. panel. The service droids will see to your needs."

It was his way of dismissing himself, of exiting the conversation. Of pretty much telling her that he wasn't going to answer any of her questions, no matter how she pressed. Ella ground her teeth behind her lips, searching for something to keep him here, to coax more information out of him. Information was power, or so Talon had told her time and again. If she was patient, calm, and observant, a person's actions could reveal the truth of a situation far better than words.

But she wasn't Talon Karrde. She wasn't even Mara Jade with her ability to slice through dreck and see the truth within heartbeats. She was simply Ella Ferasi, hyperdrive mechanic and Imperial hostage and soon to be dead meat if her boss didn't make this deal.

Lieutenant Strackton took her silence to mean that the conversation had run its course. With a bow of his head, he turned and left the room. And when she pressed the exit panel on the door, it was indeed locked. Staring at it uncomprehendingly did nothing to change the situation. That didn't stop her from trying, however, her eyes locked on that control panel, fingers hovering every so often over the release button. She could slice it, attempt to free herself. Ghent had showed her the rudimentary aspects of slicing a lock just for this very purpose. But where would that get her?

Dead, probably. The Grand Admiral wasn't taking any chances and had gone for overkill in sending a Lieutenant to pull escort duty when any low ranking recruit could have done the job. Maybe he had done it as a compliment, a show that she was more than just a prisoner? _Every word, every nuance, meant something to the Chiss_.

Her mother had said that so many times, drilling it into her head until she'd started to harbor resentment for these Chiss and this Thrawn. She'd been too young to understand what her mother had been trying to teach her, a rebellious young girl that envied the place those aliens held in her mother's heart. There was a reverence in Maris's voice when she spoke of those two precious months in Chiss territory that was utterly lacking when she spoke of her husband. Not that Maris had been an unloving wife, or that she did not love her husband. She did, in her own way, but it was nowhere near the feelings she harbored for the man she would never see again.

Gaemril Karrde had been a good man, a wonderful husband and father. He had owned a very profitable shipping company and provided a life of luxury and pleasure for his wife and his daughter. Ella had loved him dearly, kept him as the center of her young universe. She had never minded a life growing up on a starship, had no desire to feel earth beneath her boots or real sunlight on her faced. Deck plating and recycled air was good enough, so long as she was on her father's ships. And Gaemril had indulged his daughter's love of ships and space, taking her with him to planets and space stations alike every chance he could.

She grew up playing with engine parts when most girls wanted dolls. She learned how to repair hyperdrives and swoop bikes when most girls of her social class were learning how to put on makeup and attend fancy parties. The art of cutting deals for shipping rates and maneuvering through red tape in some of the more stingy shipping systems was more fascinating to her than the latest holodramas.

Was it any wonder that she had turned to smuggling to survive after everyone had…

She wouldn't think of it now. The pain and the loss were her personal scars, not something she wished to share with anyone. Her father's laughing violet eyes, the white-blonde streak in his black hair. These were hers alone. Just as her mother's face, her smile when Ella had decided to attend the same college on Corellia that Maris had attended. The hugs and tears when Ella had stepped off her father's ship that final time, her luggage carried towards her dorm by the service droids of the university, watching her family sail away for the very last time…

Heading to Alderaan for a meeting of the shipping guild, to discuss what to do about the new tariffs imposed by the Empire.

Heading off to die.

She turned away from the door just as it slid open. And as if a piece of her most painful memory had escaped her mind and come to life, a serving droid stepped through bearing her single battered trunk, the one that had been stowed on the _Etherway_. The last of the luggage her father had given her on that same ill-fated trip. Sadness turned to anger as the droid deposited the trunk and wordlessly left. No doubt the kriffing scumbags had gone through every inch of her personal belongings, violating her privacy. It mattered little that the _Chimaera's _crew had done it, or that the crew of that other Star Destroyer had been the one to riffle through her meager possessions.

All that mattered was that it had been done. And she hated it.

The scream she wanted so badly to give into was swallowed for the same reason her tears had been likewise bottled. They were watching her even now, recording every second of her presence on this ship. _Every word, every nuance, meant something. _

And so did every action.

She took her time opening the trunk, in going through the items. Three more jumpsuits, just as spotty and stained and thread-bare as the one she now wore. Two outfits of common quality that could blend into any average section of any planet. And one good dress suitable for meeting with a planetary governor. Ella removed the gown of syntha-silk, the material a soft rose-color and light as air. Uncle Talon had insisted that all his people travel with these items. Just in case one found themselves stranded and in need to disappear quickly. It always helped to blend in with the local scene.

She just never expected that the scene she was to "blend in" with would be dinner with an Imperial Grand Admiral on board his flagship. Perhaps it was just as well that the dress was new and unworn. A gift from Talon on her last Lifeday celebration. It seemed a mockery of the gift to use it for dinner with the man that wanted to kill them all. And yet… there was a certain sense of ironic pride that Talon had given her the things she needed when dealing with the ghost of her mother's unrequited love.

It was better than armor. It was better than a blaster. Because neither could be used to battle ghosts. And tonight that was exactly what she would face.

She picked up the cleansing kit from her trunk and made her way to the 'fresher station. It was going to take a long time to get the grease and grit from under her nails, to clean away the filth and fumes of fuel that always clung to a good mechanic, no matter how often they washed. To her the grime was a sign of professional pride. She wouldn't ever trust a mech that smelled of flowers or something. It meant the sentient in question obviously thought more of themselves than they did of their work product. It would be like trusting a skinny chef, or a slovenly security official.

But no matter how hard she scrubbed, there was still not enough cleanser in the galaxy to wash away grief or rinse away loss.

* * *

She was surprised when she entered the command room for the second time, the expression clear on her face. It was a sentiment that Thrawn, himself, echoed. He had prepared himself for this meeting, replayed the conversation with the girl after Mara Jade had left, gone over what little information Intelligence had provided in regards to Loriella Ferasi. He knew where she was born, who her father had been, what schools she attended, and when she dropped off the face of the known galaxy two weeks after Alderaan.

Of course, all this information had been under the name of Sulleran Karrde. Loriella Ferasi did not come into being until six years ago, when she had joined with her uncle's smuggling operation.

The connection had escaped him at first. He had seen her before on the planet Myrkr as part of Talon's entourage, though far back enough to have seemed inconsequential. He had memorized her face only out of reflex as he had all of those presented before him in that impromptu visit. It had tugged at his mind even then that her features had reminded him so much of Maris. But there had been other concerns, other time tables that would not allow for personal distraction. She had been filed away as an idle bit of curiosity to be picked apart at a later time.

Now… now she stood before him in her rose-colored gown and soft shoes, freshly clean of the mechanic's curse of dirt and grease. Lovely, as her mother had been. A ghost come to life, pulled from the furthest reaches of his heart. And yet she wasn't Maris. She was her own person, even if those eyes were Maris's eyes, those lips her lips, the finely sculpted curve of her cheek…

She was Maris's daughter.

And she was Talon Karrde's niece.

But she was also his prisoner. And his chance at redemption.

The expression in her eyes was shrewd, calculating, as she surveyed the room. Took in the art work hanging on the walls, the columns of sculptures that threaded the walkways. Talon's influence, no doubt. He fought not to let his lip twist in a frown. That would have to be corrected and soon. She was young enough by human customs, barely twenty four standard years of age. There was time yet to remove bad impressions from the mold of her personality and instill better, more appropriate influences in her life. Already his mind put together a chosen curriculum, a series of educational courses that she would attend under his tutelage.

Art, of course, as homage to her mother's memory. But sciences as well, tactics and diplomacy. Her scores on her entry exams to the universities of Corellia more than proved she could handle a rigid study program.

He did not fight the smile that turned his lips this time. Had she been anyone else, had her mother been some other human woman, her future would not have been filled with education. She would be in an interrogation cell this moment, her mind softened by narcotics until she gave up every bit of information she had on Talon Karrde and his involvement with Luke Skywalker. And after she was broken, he would have her turned over to the recruitment and training divisions for rebuilding. So that when Talon Karrde was brought before him in chains, Talon's lovely niece would have been standing proud and strong in an Imperial uniform at his side.

It would have been a fair and ironic trade. Talon had stolen Skywalker from his grasp. And he would take something of equal value from Talon as repayment. Symmetry, really.

Then again, that wasn't far from what he was planning for Loriella Ferasi to begin with. Only it would be her choice if she one day wore the Imperial uniform. And he would not be cruel to her, would not force her to stand at his side and watch the heart drain out of Talon Karrde when he realized his niece was forever lost to him. Was forever Thrawn's from that point forward. As much as it would aid in breaking down Talon's considerable mental fortifications, the psychological damage to Loriella would not equal that gain.

He had sworn on his debt to Maris Ferasi that her daughter would be safe. He would keep his word.

Her eyes tracked finally to the table arranged for two on the side of the room, and he felt them travel over his form. Taking in every inch of him from boots to dress uniform, to the posture of his pose and everything in between. The considering, curious look in her eyes was definitely inherited from Maris. It stabbed him more than he was prepared for, cut cleanly through his emotional armor. Did she see it in his eyes, he wondered, the momentary weakness before he reformed his defenses and patched over the wound. For once, he did not care if she did.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation this evening, Miss Ferasi," he said at last, when her eyes eventually settled on his. He inclined his head in a bow of sorts, and pulled out her chair for her. "Please, join me if you would be so kind."

A brief hesitation, a shift in her gaze from curious to tentative. Wondering at his intentions, no doubt. If she would find herself wined and dined and bedded, as humans so crudely put it. She nodded slowly, once.

"Thank you for your time," she said stiffly, sitting with equal stiffness as he pushed her chair into place. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

Again his lip twitched at her choice of words. Trying for diplomacy, as her mother would have, and yet her words carrying the whip-like strikes of her father's family. This was far from what she would have deemed pleasurable. "You have your mother's grace," he replied, taking his seat and pouring the wine. "She, too, was very adept at placing her personal feelings behind the comfort of others."

She shifted at that, his own strike landing with precision across her heart. A returned volley, a warning shot in answer to the attack she had given. Her education beginning already at his hands, his battle to earn her loyalty likewise commencing. If she fired again at his emotional fleet, she would take just as many causalities until she learned the edges of her new boundaries, and the limits of his patience.

"I do not wish to discuss my mother," she said, folding her hands in her lap, her wine and appetizer untouched.

"And if I do?"

She made as if to rise, as if to throw her napkin on the table in a dramatic fit of pique. And just as quickly changed her mind. "Then you will have a very one-sided conversation, sir. I will not dishonor her memory."

Another shot to his heart, though this one he let pass unanswered. The sudden anger in those too-familiar eyes, masking the quick flash of tears, let him know that she wounded herself as well. Let him know that the only dishonor she felt wasn't in speaking about her mother to him, but to speaking about her mother to the man her mother had loved more than her father. A torn loyalty that touched him deeply, more so that she somehow held tightly to one side without betraying the other.

She wanted to learn about him, about the man her mother had loved so fiercely. And despite her previous statement, she wanted very much to talk about her mother. But the love for her father forced the desire away, held it hostage.

He could capitalize on that, strike into the center of it and shatter all the bonds that held her away from what he wanted for her. What he wanted for her protection. He took the moment to sip at his wine, casually taking a bite of his appetizer. If her show of defiance bothered him in the slightest, it was unseen in his movements. He watched that sink in, until, with the slightest of sighs, she gave ground in their verbal conflict, picking up her fork and trying a bite of what was on her plate.

Another sip of wine hid his slight smile.

"Loriella," he said at length, waiting for her to sip her own wine before speaking. "That is an interesting name. Why did you choose it?"

She frowned, setting down the cup and staring at it a moment. Stalling. "Why do you ask?"

"I am making conversation, Miss Ferasi. Since you do not wish to discuss topics in which we both have a mutual interest, I am attempting to find common ground."

Her eyes hardened. "We have other topics in common."

Talon, And her imprisonment. Did she realize how similar this all was, how he could literally see across the length of time and space to the conference room aboard the _Springhawk_. The hard eyes of Dubrak Quennto, the soft gaze of Maris Ferasi. And the dangerous topic of their chances of survival if they did not answer his questions.

He let his gaze follow hers, his tone cool. "Do you truly wish to discuss those things now?"

The shift again in her eyes, weighing and measuring his words, his possible intentions. And the slim chance that she could best him in a word game. That her anger at her situation could somehow eclipse his at Talon Karrde's betrayal. If she wished that fight, he would give it to her. It would be over swiftly, and she would not win. For all her natural intelligence and curiosity, for all her observational skills and intuition, she was not his equal. And she knew it.

Those magnificent eyes lowered to her plate, surrendering this length of proverbial ground to him. Another victory in his corner, another step closer to pulling her in.

"It was a nickname, something my mother and father called me when I was very small," she said, folding her hands into her lap again. "I thought it fitting when I… had to strike out on my own."

"Yes," he nodded, signaling to the droid hovering in the corner to bring in the first course of their dinner. "What your father's partners did was reprehensible. The company should have remained in your name, and appropriate funds given to complete your education."

She glanced up at that, shock or outrage playing across her features before she could control it. Yet she kept her tongue in check, kept whatever words she wished to voice behind those too-familiar lips. Another mark in her favor.

"I have made it my business to know everything about you, Miss Ferasi," he continued, picking up his spoon to sample the soup placed before them. "And your associates."

She picked up her own spoon, swirled it through her soup with more force than was necessary. "To make it easier for you to hunt us down, I suppose."

"Yes."

Again with the shock, the surprise at his blunt and honest answer. "I wasn't expecting you to say that."

"It is the truth, and if your mother told you anything about me, it is that I put a significant value on truth."

The stirring spoon slowed as she digested his words, finally rising to her lips. "Yes, she said that. Then let me ask you this. If my uncle does not make the deal that Mara proposed, are you going to kill me?"

"No."

"Just like that? No? No explanation?"

"Do you require one outside the obvious?"

"You mean the debt," she said quickly… and then tipped her head to the side, curiosity back in her stare. "And something more. What aren't you telling me?"

His smile was small as he lifted his eyebrows. "Quite a bit, Miss Ferasi. I am afraid I cannot tell you everything I know. It would take longer than the time we've allotted to a single dinner."

The humor threw her, a flanking maneuver in their verbal engagement. He watched her flounder, try to adapt. Observed the thoughts flickering through her eyes as she tried to reconcile the man in her mother's stories with the man before her, sort through the rumors and propaganda that painted a less than flattering picture of him to the galaxy at large.

"Is that an invitation to share your table again?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Loriella."

She frowned at the strange way he just pronounced her assumed name. The change of inflections, different stressing of syllables, altered tones. It was the proper pronunciation of the Chiss word.

"I… don't follow."

"Lor'ie'lla," he said again, slower this time. "It is a Cheunh word, a phrase really. It means 'small star' in the literal translation. But in the way you have stated that your mother used it, it means 'beloved little star' or 'brightest star in the sky.' Your mother loved you very much, Lor'ie'lla, if she used this term for you. You were the center of her universe."

It was the final blow, the shot that decided the first battle in their war. He had won, and he did not need to watch her look away, to hide the tears in her eyes before they could fall. And as much as he wanted to press her further, to strip her of her unnecessary and damaging loyalties, he had to stop. For now. She had to come to him from this point onward, to come to trust him on her own. The work of winning her true loyalty a delicate dance that could falter at any moment.

"Your mother was a very good student, exceptional at learning Cheunh. I see that she has taught you most of what I taught to her. It is not a complicated language at its heart. Though there are some physical differences between our two species that make it difficult for humans to pronounce most words. Allow me to demonstrate…"

He kept talking of language lessons through their first course and on to the second, graciously allowing her the time to gather herself again. By the fourth course of their meal, she was listening to him, learning. Absorbed in the words he spoke and the examples he gave. Yet it was his turn to trade places with her, to suffer the attack of memory, to beat back the bittersweet sorrow that enveloped him as the past tried to layer over the present. As his treacherous heart imposed the image of Maris seated next to him, that same look of utter attention as he gave this exact lesson to her.

When the escort arrived hours later to take her back to her quarters, he knew he would dream of Maris.

The knowledge filled him with elation and dread.


	3. Chapter 3 - Contemplation

A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm still trying to overcome the flu, so please bear with me if this chapter seems a bit odd. This is still a continuation of AgelessGrace66's song challenge. The song chosen this time to inspire this chapter is "Beloved" by VNV Nation. Please let me know what you think! :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

Ella was shaking by the time Lieutenant Strackton left her alone in her quarters. She had no idea when it had begun, or even why. No, that wasn't entirely true. It had started the moment he had revealed to her what the pet name her mother had given her had really meant. Little Star. Precious Star. It… fit. It would have been so like her mother to name her that, and the fact that he knew it, that this Grand Admiral that wanted them all dead, knew her mother so strongly as if to have been inside her head?

The weight of that… that unreality had turned a simple dinner into a surreal experience.

She had gone into the meeting certain that it would end in one of two ways: either with her body pinned to a wall by an interrogation droid, her mouth open wide in screams as drugs and electrical shocks loosed her tongue until she was babbling anything to make the pain stop. Or with her body pinned beneath his, seduced by this man that breathed power and wore command like tangible garments, her mouth open in cries that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with pleasure.

Neither had happened, and yet… and yet she felt as if both had taken place. So much so that she unconsciously patted her hands across her dress, across her body. Making certain that her hide was intact, that she was covered decently. His eyes, she thought as she sank into one of the chairs of the tiny sitting room. Stars, her mother had never told her how powerful his stare was, how his gaze could see through her. Not leering as some men would have in that situation. Far from it. It wasn't her body that he wanted to search, but her heart.

And stars save her, he had found it. Found it, touched it, whipped it viciously with words like laser fire. And then soothed it all at the same time. The conversation had been agony and joy, torment and pleasure. Interrogation and comfort.

She didn't know what to think of it, of him. But she knew she could no longer blame her mother for falling for this man. That didn't mean she forgave Maris Ferasi-Karrde in the slightest. Her loyalty to her father forbade that much compassion. But she could no longer blame the woman that had birthed her. One three hour dinner with Thrawn had caused this much conflict within herself. How much more would two months at his side? What had that much exposure to a man like this done to her mother, how had it changed her? How much of the woman Ella had known was a product of that two-month encounter, and how much was simply Maris, herself?

Ella shivered again, fighting not to wrap her arms around her waist, to comfort herself like a child. They were still watching her, her Imperial captors. Most likely he was watching her, too. She would not give him further ammunition to use against her, and so she fought to keep her hands on the arms of her chair, to still the trembling in her limbs. She thought about Aves, the even-toned unflappable pilot in Talon's organization that could fly through anything. The man had a sabbac face that was unreadable, his mannerisms always hiding his true feelings. It was what made him a great pilot, his ability to be ice cold even in the face of absolute danger.

She tried to be like Aves.

Tried.

And failed. Because her mind wasn't conjuring the images of Aves at his control station when she thought of imperturbable influences in her life. She was thinking about Thrawn. And how he had been honest with her in everything in that conversation over dinner. And how he hadn't so much as shone a flicker of irritation when she had been deliberately rude. Cool, serene, self-possessed, unexcitable.

Everything her mother had described to her. Everything that was the opposite of her biological father.

Ella rose from the seat, crossed quickly into the bed chamber of her suite… and found that her things had been unpacked in her absence. Her battered trunk was stowed in the small closet, her clothing hanging neatly. Only it wasn't her clothing, well not all of it. Her three jumpsuits were missing, though the common outfits hung neatly enough. Nestled between five brand new jumpsuits of the exact same make and coloring. Down to the last seal on the wrists and ankles.

It took everything she had left to run her fingers over the new fabric, searching with a terrible dread in her for the tale-tell Imperial emblem on the shoulder that would signify the fact that she'd been conscripted.

Her fingers found smooth, unmarked fabric. Her breath left her in a noisy whoosh.

But there were more gifts there in her room. Aside from the new jumpsuits were two additional sets of common clothing and four sets of what she would have called finery. Two were dresses cut in similar styles to the one she now wore. The other two were tunics of a design in which she was unfamiliar. One in a deep burgundy color trimmed in grey. The other reversed in color, grey trimmed in burgundy. The sleeves were wide, long, the collars high. Matching pants accompanied the tunics. And three new sets of boots, one sturdy enough for mechanic work, the soles non-skid. The other two could easily accompany any outfit in the closet.

She turned away from the clothing, moving towards the small chest of drawers. Inside were appropriate undergarments for the outfits, a heavy jacket of military quality and cut but unadorned with symbols, two capes as were in fashion these days, and several sets of gloves. Again, to match any outfit in the closet.

It was more clothing than she had let herself travel with in years. Enough to keep her for—

"He isn't going to kill me," she whispered aloud, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. Pieces of their dinner conversation playing across her thoughts. "He's going to keep me. Even if Talon makes the deal, I'm not leaving this ship."

"_Then let me ask you this. If my uncle does not make the deal that Mara proposed, are you going to kill me?"_

"_No."_

"_Just like that? No? No explanation?"_

"_Do you require one outside the obvious?"_

"_You mean the debt… And something more. What aren't you telling me?"_

"_Quite a bit, Miss Ferasi. I am afraid I cannot tell you everything I know. It would take longer than the time we've allotted to a single dinner."_

"_Is that an invitation to share your table again?" _

"_Yes."_

The shaking returned with a vengeance. Mara had eight days to bring back the location of the Katana Fleet to Thrawn. Otherwise he would start hunting Karrde and everyone associated with him again. To the death this time. Ella, herself, was the living bargaining chip left in Thrawn's grasp, like a deposit of good faith that the deal would be struck. Eight days worth of dinners wasn't nearly long enough for Thrawn to explain everything he promised. Or did he promise that? Was she merely assuming?

The conversation had slipped out of her control when he'd brought up her mother. She had thought she had been prepared for that. He had shown her how wrong she had been, at least as far as his depth of knowledge of Maris Ferasi had gone. Two months. How in the known galaxy had he learned more of her mother in two months than Ella had learned in the fourteen years they had spent as mother and daughter?

Or did he know anything at all? Was this all a game? And if it was, to what purpose?

She shook her head. No, she could not afford to second guess herself. Talon had warned her often enough that she let the hypotheticals of a situation cloud what was right in front of her eyes. Her gaze drifted towards the still open closet, and then back to the chest of drawers. The things right before her eyes indicated that Thrawn intended to keep her for longer than eight days. A _lot_ longer.

She sat there staring at the floor, her eyes lost inside herself rather than fixated on the durasteel, turning over the possibilities and possible outcomes of her situation until her vision swam and her eyes felt gritty. Until she was near to driving herself mad with the fact that she was no closer to a solution than when she had started. All she knew was that he felt he owed her a debt. That he would fulfill that debt in the way he believed best, regardless of her wants or desires. And sitting in the heart of a Star Destroyer under his command, she was literally out of options.

Out of options, except to play along in his little game.

Ella walked back into the sitting room, taking up the communications system and poking it to life with a fingertip. The welcoming message on the screen brought a slight smirk to her lips, a menu custom tailored to her needs or wants. At least as far as the Imperials were willing to be accommodating at any rate. A code had been provided for her, allowing limited access to the Chimaera's vast electronic libraries. She was free to peruse most of the holonet at large, though she was restricted from sending out communications of any kind. Not that she was that foolish to try. The last thing she needed or wanted to do was hand over holo sights or drop boxes to the Imperial Intelligence division to use against her Uncle's organization.

What was surprising was that she was given access to the standard Imperial training packages. _All _of them. Her mouth fell open slightly at that. If she wanted to, she could sit there and learn how to work any station on the ship, or run simulations to learn to fly a shuttle, or a TIE. The menu offered unlimited avenues to entertain herself that way… or train herself, she thought with a bitter note. Those jumpsuits in her closet may not have been stamped with Imperial registration yet, but that did not mean the patches couldn't be added a later date.

Becoming certified in Imperial Star Destroyer Operations was a sure-fire way to find one's self in uniform before one could blink.

Other items caught her notice. A listing of Cheunh vocabulary and language excersies. One in Sy Bisti, and something called Minnistat as well. It was the art collection that caught her eye, the listing of images and text books quite surprising. It was as if Thrawn had downloaded the entire set of coursework from the Corellian University in order to obtain her degree.

Again, why would he do this? What was the gain in this? Was he attempting to seduce her mind instead of her body in offering this? Again, what would be the point, the purpose?

She didn't know, and that made it all somehow more frightening. Especially when she realized the only way she would learn the why of it was by asking Thrawn directly. Taking a deep breath, she typed in a quick message before turning and heading for the bed.

* * *

He was tired, a dull, faint ache behind his eyes reminding him of the fact that he had not slept well. Not that such a thing showed in his outward appearance, and certainly not that such a thing was unexpected. He had known the moment he closed his eyes that her face would appear before him. History had provided the truth of that time and again. Every time he found a painting that reminded him of her, a piece of art from a world here or there that he knew she would have enjoyed. He would pay the price for that moment of reflection when sleep claimed him.

It was not a surprise that she filled his dreams in the wake of his conversation with her daughter.

"Admiral," Captain Pellaeon nodded from the command center as Thrawn exited the turbolift.

"Captain," he replied with the same nod, the same military formality. "What word from Wayland?"

Pellaeon forwarded the requested reports, and Thrawn sank into his command chair, reading the information that scrolled across his screen. His plans were progressing on schedule, the spaarti cylinders producing its crop of clones with precision timing. The Rebellion was still scrambling in the wake of the Sluis Van Shipyard incident, cash crazy and near deranged in its attempts to repair the warships that had been severely damaged. While not as sweet a victory as having captured those ships for his own purpose, Thrawn was nevertheless satisfied that those ships were out of commission for a very long while.

It tipped the balance of power further in his favor, and opened possibilities for further conquest in the rebelling systems. Soon, very soon, he would have this slice of the galaxy back under Imperial control. And then he could turn his attentions to his true purpose, to protecting his people from the Far Outsiders, the Yuuzhan Vong enemy. To protecting those he cherished from destruction.

And making amends for those he could not.

The dream came back to him, summoned by that momentary melancholy, by the fatigue that pulled at his consciousness. Maris stood in a field of summer flowers, their colors defying definition, her hair loose and flowing about her shoulders, stirred in a breeze only she could feel. He stood with her in that summer meadow, knowing that they were on Corellia, her birthworld. And tiny little insects with bright gossamer wings, as colorful as the flowers around them, floated delicately in the air.

Butterflies, she had called them. Living jewels.

He surmised that this was a soothing place for humans, that this lush, too rich, too bright scene was the ultimate definition of perfection in nature. To him, it was slightly alarming, jarring, really. His birthworld was cold, the landscapes not covered in a green carpet of warmth but the icy layering of snow. It was no less beautiful, the sunlight no less bright. If anything, it was more so, light radiating and shattering from icy prisms to cast rainbows of color across the white landscape.

Csilla was a harsh world, a trying world, and the Chiss were stronger for it. And he knew, somehow, that while she stood in the soft pampering meadows of her home when he looked at her, she saw him against the stark backdrop of his. Sihouetted by white and pale blue, flurries of snow to dot the air behind him instead of those butterfly creatures she loved.

Opposites in nearly every way. And still he had loved her.

She had smiled at him then, taken his hand as if to pull him through the layers of reality and into a place where she still drew breath. "Don't be sad," she said, firmly. "Not here. This is not a place for sorrow."

"This is not a place at all, Ferasi," he replied, resisting the pull of her hand, the lure of her warmth. "This is a dream. You are not real."

"Does that matter, Thrawn? Does it truly matter?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because there is too much at stake. I cannot afford distraction, not if I wish to accomplish the things I must."

She moved as if to sit, and the background behind her shifted, became Forward Visual One onboard the _Springhawk_. Her face was cast in shadows, highlighted only by the marbled sky of hyperspace outside the large display window. He sat, too, their hands still locked together. Silent and … comforting.

"I have your daughter," he said, surprising himself.

Never before had he indulged in conversation with the ghosts of his mind. For that was what she was, a pale imperfect rendering of the woman he had cherished. Created by his feelings, incomplete for that very reason. There would have been no purpose to this sort of conversation. Confessing his feelings to a figment of imagination would have been tantamount to insanity. And he was stronger than that, so much stronger than the need to speak to a ghost even if it brought momentary relief to the weight he carried.

No, especially _because_ of that.

"Loriella," Maris nodded. "What will you do with her?"

His lips compressed and the scene shifted again. He was lying on his back in the dark of the empty crewer room, this time on the Crustai base, the bed soft beneath him. Maris lay at his side as she had all those times before, in those stolen moments away from everyone else. Her hair tousled from where his fingers had slid through it, gripped it, caressed the silken strands in its exotic mahogany color. So very different from the black hair of his people. So intriguing in that diversity.

"I don't know," he confessed honestly. "At least at this juncture in time, I do not know. She must come to me, Maris. She must be willing to learn, to give me her loyalty."

She pushed herself up on her elbow, gazing down at him, her smile tender and playful all at once. "And if she doesn't? If she is as stubborn as I was?"

He reached up a hand to touch her cheek, letting his fingers trace over the curve and slip down to her neck. Sliding behind and pulling her closer. "Then I will have her taken to a planet of my choosing, keep her there until the war is over. Protected, as I failed to protect you."

"My death wasn't your fault," she breathed against his lips. "You did not order the Death Star to destroy Alderaan."

"I should have fought harder against the creation of such a thing."

"To what end? You knew that station would never last long, that the Rebellion would find the obvious flaws. The flaws you, yourself, pointed out to the Emperor before construction began. You made your choice. We both know it was the right one. You chose to protect your people in the Unknown Regions," she kissed him, slowly at first but with the growing passion that he loved. And, because this was a dream, she could continue speaking with him even through the kiss. "Leave your guilt on my grave, Thrawn. Leave it behind. It is not yours to carry, _ley'atra_."

_Ley'atra_. The sacred desire of my heart. The name he had given her, that she had gifted back to him.

He came back to himself as a message pinged on his board, his eyebrows lifting fractionally as he read. The melancholy faded, replaced with a slight smile. "Most excellent," he said aloud, and settled back to wait. Let his eyes stray to the viewports and the stars beyond. Reminded of the flurries of snow, the living jewels, and the precious gift that was about to arrive on his bridge.


	4. Chapter 4 - The First Real Question

A/N: Thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed! I take all reviews to heart and try to improve this story as much as possible. This is still a continuation of AgelessGrace66's challenge to write a Thrawn fanfic inspired by a love song. This chapter is based on the song "Carnival of Rust" by Poets of the Fall. Not a classic love song like before, but I found it strangely fitting for this chapter. I hope you enjoy. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

Not for the first time did she wish she had paid attention to all those lectures her mother had given her on proper dress. Ella stood before the closet, absently munching on a bite of her noon repast, as she stared at the options before her. It was more like a breakfast, really, as least as far as she was concerned. It had been well into ship's morning when she'd finally sent that message to the Admiral, asking for a meeting at his convenience. At the time, in her overly exhausted and mentally agitated state, it had seemed the wisest of options. Play his game. Learn what she could about him. And use that to figure a way out of this "debt" and back to her Uncle's organization.

Now, having slept on the notion, she was beginning to second guess the so-called wisdom of her actions.

Not that there were other options available, she told herself sternly. He held all the cards in this sabacc game, and the bet was high, her future the stakes of the game they played. If she folded too soon, revealed her cards too quickly, he was going to win. If he hadn't already…

Ella shook her head, clearing away that mental cobweb before it could spin more strands of self-doubt into her emotional corners. Mara had told her that fear of the unknown was one of the most powerful tools the Empire could use against a person during interrogations. Stuck in a black box waiting… never knowing what would happen. Forced to reanalyze yourself and your situation, the events that lead you to your ultimate doom by interrogation droid. The best way to combat that was to stay focused on the facts, the situations as you knew them.

The present was full of its own bad situations without adding tomorrow's imagined debacles to the list.

Swallowing the last of her meal, she took a deep breath and tried to look at her options with uncluttered eyes. She had to wear something he'd given her, of that she knew. If she didn't, if she wore the same dress, she would have spurned his gifts and put him on the defensive. Maybe even the offensive. And that was an advantage she couldn't afford to hand him. No, he had to work for that. She was finished giving him things for free like she had last night. In fact, she would consider those slips in her personality as payment for the new clothing.

That thought made her feel better. She had gained something in exchange for her loss. They were back on even, neutral footing. Well, as much as she could be while standing on a Star Destroyer under his command. Not the most ideal location for conducting business of any kind, not when the show of force was all his. Still, one played the hand one was dealt. There was no use complaining over it. So which gown would it be…

Her hand seemed to reach out of its own accord, landing on the tunic of grey with the burgundy accents. Something about it teased at her memory, her mother's voice drifting back across the mists of time. There had been a story about meeting someone in burgundy and grey, someone close to Thrawn. The name escaped her, though. Something like Thrall? Thran? Thrace? Try as she might, the memory would not come. It was too slathered with emotional residue, resentment clouding over its clarity as the little girl she had been had sat in silent anger as her mother went on about a man that wasn't her father.

She shook her head again. It didn't matter, she supposed. Only that the color of burgundy had been important, and something about the number eight. Were the two linked somehow? How could she use that to her advantage?

Those cards had yet to be revealed, she was forced to admit. With a shrug that was more compulsory than felt, she picked up the grey tunic and matching leggings, choosing the boots that went up to the knee in shining black. Her long dark brown hair was braided, the tail falling to her waist when completed. That was all. Just a simple braid to keep her hair out of her way, to keep the wild strands in some sort of presentable arrangement. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, taking in the strange tunic, the way it fell to the knees when belted properly, sweeping to a longer length behind her that nearly touched the floor.

Her mother had had something similar once. But Maris had kept that tunic in a vac case, never opening it. Preserving the delicate fabric and embroidery as if it were the most precious of paintings in the known galaxy. It was the one thing she would not share with Ella, unwilling to talk about it at any point. Or the tiny stain in the corner of the collar that looked suspiciously like blood. But every so often, on the same night of the year, Maris would stare at the slender vac case, blow the dust from the top of it. And smile.

Ella stared at her own reflection again. Her mother's features stared back at her for the most part, her mother's lips frowning ever so slightly. But her father's eyes were strong in her image, violet-purple and sharp enough to cut. Her hair was her mother's color, yet contained that unfettered wildness that had marked the untamable mane of Gaemril Karrde. She had to wonder if her mother had ever worn that protected tunic, and if she was the image of her mother now.

If that had been his plan all along? What if this was another way to leave her off balance? What if the tunic wasn't the payment she was making it out to be?

No, she shook her head yet again. No, she would not give in to shadowy 'what-if's.' She would face her future with certainty, and play the Admiral's game to the best of her abilities. And if she lost, she lost. But she would do so as herself.

She sat and waited for the summons to attend her captor.

* * *

He caught her reflection through the view port, watching as she strode onto the bridge. Only the slightest of hesitation marked her entrance, a contrast to the way she had staggered to a halt the evening before. Learning, adapting, and countering his attempts to throw her off balance. Proving that their exchange last night had not been the extent of her skills. Inwardly, he approved, and at the same time began to calculate the length of time necessary to properly train that skill into something he could use. As he had with all the other abilities she'd displayed thus far.

Did she know in some small part of her soul, that each step and breath and word and motion she took in his presence was further cementing his desire to guide her, further tying her to him? If she did, he mused as she approached under guard, stopping three steps away from him as proper protocol dictated, she did not show it. At least, not yet.

He continued to stare at the stars, at the planet of Endor below them, and let the silence grow. Let her absorb the sounds of the bridge crew at their stations, the muted background chatter that was the living, breathing pulse that gave life to the ship. All the while observing her in small bits through her reflection.

She put up a good front, he noted. Standing there for a full three minutes before letting her eyes surreptitiously dart about the bridge. Curiosity more than fear or self-consciousness causing the reaction. Again, another good mark in her favor. Self-assured, as her mother had been. As curious as Maris ever was, but with a reservation and worldliness that had to have come from her father.

For all that he had loved Maris, there had been a naivety to her. At times it had been distracting, surprising and shocking, and in the end fully endearing. So much so that he had asked Car'das to spare her the knowledge of his hand in the destruction of Outbound Flight. To destroy such innocence had seemed an unnecessary crime at that moment. If he could not give her a future with him, he could at least preserve her idealistic views of the universe for a bit longer.

Loriella displayed considerably less idealism, peering at the ship again with the calculating eyes of Talon Karrde. He turned slightly in her direction before the frown touched his lips. There would be time enough to strip her of Talon's influences. For now, things had to be handled delicately. He gestured with a hand, an elegant motion to approach.

And the almost frown turned into an almost smile at the way she ground her teeth behind her nearly placid expression. Prideful, as he would have expected from anyone bearing the blood of Karrde. Pride that was pricked at being summoned forward like a servant. Something else he would correct in minute amounts, until her pride was shield rather than a hindrance. Perhaps it wasn't against his plans after all to have her trained as an officer. The education would certainly go a long way in forging her pride and curiosity into fine weapons.

"Thank you for indulging my schedule," he said, staring once again down at Endor. "I am afraid the only time I have to meet with you this afternoon is here upon the bridge."

She fidgeted for a moment before choosing to fold her hands at her waist. "Thank you for meeting with me," she said in reply. "You shouldn't have gone out of your way like this. If you are busy, I can speak with you another time. I… don't want to interrupt anything."

She was trying again for her mother's gentle diplomacy, using the same initial plan of attack she had used the night before. Aligning her mental defenses accordingly, no doubt. He could not say that he approved of it, nor that he completely disapproved. A proven strategy was often one of the most effective weapons in one's arsenal. Except that he had barely begun to toy with her during that dinner, and her defenses were like flimsy against the durasteel of his armada.

Still, experience was the greatest of teachers. It was time to shake up the playing field, as it were.

His smile was a touch condescending. "We both know that is untrue, Miss Ferasi. You would not have initiated this conversation for idle reasons. You have questions. It so happens that I have a few moments to give answers."

She didn't exactly recoil from the gentle bluntness of his denial. Perhaps it was the location he had chosen for this particular match. Perhaps she saw his bluntness as bravado before his men. Certainly that had been part of the reason he'd chosen to meet her there, to see how she would react in the presence of others, when protocols were forced upon her and she could not simply 'throw up her hands' in frustration and dive directly to the point. Whatever went on behind her eyes, she recovered quickly, leaving barely a physical reaction to show her discomfort.

If anything, she gained strength from it. Stepping up next to him, close enough to touch. Following his gaze down to the planet below, countering his first volley with the reorganization of her defenses.

He approved. And rewarded her with a silent, unseen signal to Rukh not to approach. Allowing her to stand so close to him where others would have found a painful reminder to keep their distance.

"Fine," she said softly, firmly. "I have many questions. But I'll keep them short and to the point. The first being about my father's company and what you know of it."

His smile shifted, slight amusement and a slyness touching his lips. The safer topic, he thought. Leading in with a feinting maneuver to get him talking so she could slip in the hidden attack. Learning from the previous night that a full frontal assault would gain her nothing. Part of him was flattered by her attempts to manipulate him, and judging from her tactics, she was doing her best to do exactly that. Others had attempted such during his lifetime, both Chiss and Imperial alike. Others had failed, too, and found worse than the taste of bitter defeat for their efforts. Ella, on the other hand, would find something altogether different.

Yes, she was proving young enough yet to learn. With the core understanding that would make educating her a pleasant distraction rather than a chore.

"Parabolic Enterprises," he began, eyes lingering on the planet below. "I am certain you know the basics of its founding by your father and his two partners, the human Sha'en Whistler and the Twi'lek Zabetta Erst. What you are looking for is the point in time where it ceased to be your father's company and became the corporation it is now, I assume. Though I must now ask you a question in return. Why do you wish to know?"

She looked down at Endor, too, following his gaze. He wondered what she saw in the lazy turning of its atmosphere. Did she see the death of the Emperor, the end of an era that fostered more bad than good? Or did she see it as he did, as the birthplace of an opportunity to rid the Empire of its blatant foolishness such as slavery and anti-alien tendencies, a chance to reshape the remnants into an establishment of true order, security and peace. Or perhaps she saw nothing more than a stalling tactic in the planet below them, a diversion in which to arrange her thoughts or search for the supposed hook in his words.

"Revenge," she said at last, and glanced up at him with haunted eyes. "And the chance to reclaim what is rightfully mine."

Ah, perhaps she did see the same things he did.

"So the life of a simple mechanic is not enough to satisfy you."

"Would it satisfy _you_?" she asked too quickly, too much heat in her soft tone.

Leaving her wide open for his next attack. The inexperienced youth exposing herself and the weakness in her armor, falling for his returned feint. He would have to teach her to leave passion and emotion behind until they were needed. Leading with either was the primary pitfall to disaster.

"It is not so much the position one find's oneself assuming in the moment," he replied with a shrug. "So much as the position one gains in the end."

She turned back to the viewport, hands pressing hard on the lip of it. "So you won't tell me," she gritted out bitterly. "That's fine. I've been searching for years for the answer to that question. What's a delay of one more week compared to that."

He turned to face her, hands clasped behind his back. Head tilted slightly to the side. "Did I say I would not answer?"

She hesitated again, glancing around the bridge. And forcing back the anger, the temper that was the hallmark of Gaemril Karrde. The man had been passionate, wild, according to all accounts. Indeed the only thing that had seemed to mark him as the brother of Talon Karrde was the shrewd business sense both brothers displayed. Glimpses of that shrewdness peeked out in Gaemril's daughter, just as bits of Maris's understand peered out of those amethyst eyes. But beneath it all, a storm was beginning to rage inside the young woman. A battle of her own between a mother's nurture and a father's nature. He cultivated that storm, fed it with his words. Soon, very soon, it would break across her soul.

And he would be there to pick up the pieces in the wake of its aftermath. He merely had to be patient.

She pursed her lips, took a calming breath. "No, you didn't. But neither did you say you would."

"Patience, Miss Ferasi. I would suggest that you follow your mother's example in the next few days and not jump to conclusions without first knowing all the facts."

The heat rose in her eyes, and with it the desire to say things only her father would have had the audacity to speak aloud. And yet he watched her mother swim to the forefront of her gaze, carefully considering his words. Maris had always been patient, understanding. Trusting. Did enough of her remain in Ella to surface? Or had too much time with Talon buried that aspect of her parentage.

Like when she had arrived, he waited. Let the silence do the work for him. Until her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. Forfeiting the battlefield yet again in the hopes that his terms of surrender would include the answers to all the questions that plagued her life. Inwardly, he smiled. He would provide her answers and more. A piece at a time, until she trusted him.

Until he knew his debt was paid in full.

"Would you… please… tell me what you know? About Parabolic Enterprises, I mean."

He nodded once. "Dinner tonight," he said, signaling Lieutenant Strackton to come forward from his guard post. "I will tell you what I know on that topic. In exchange, you will tell me why you chose that outfit for our meeting today. Also, I suggest you brush up on your language lessons, Miss Ferasi, for tonight's conversation will be entirely in Cheunh."


	5. Chapter 5 - The First Break

A/N: Thanks again for the reviews and favorites and follows! As always, this is a continuation of AgelessGrace66's Lovesong Fic challenge with Grand Admiral Thrawn. The song for this chapter is "Familiar Taste of Poison" by Halestorm. Again, not a traditional lovesong, but I really found it fitting. Let me know what you think! :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. I am not making any money from this. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

Ella was standing at that dreaded closet again, wondering idly when she'd become some sort of living kriffing dress-up doll for an Imperial kriffing Grand Admiral's kriffing pleasure. Her lips were pulled down into a frown, eyes blazing at the very audacity of the situation. She was a smuggler, a mechanic, a drifter. A literal nobody. To someone like Grand Admiral Thrawn, she shouldn't have been so much as a blip on his regal radar.

The tradeoff for being a literal nobody was the gratifyingly blessed freedom afforded to the unknown and unwanted.

She had been _free_. There had been no demands on her time, no schedule she had had to keep, no one giving her orders and expecting her to blindly follow them. Even her Uncle had acknowledged her ability to pack up her tools and run off whenever and to wherever she wanted.

And the locks that had been on her quarters functioned from the inside instead of the outside.

She turned her fuming gaze on the outer door of her suite, as if the sheer magnitude of her anger could burn the electronics to ash. Her feet moved before she realized she was doing it, fingernails scraping along the smooth faceplate of the door release mechanism until she found that sweet spot. And she froze, fingers poised to flip that panel open and reveal its innards, mind focused on the wires she could twist, cut and reinsert into different ports. Slicing the lock in milliseconds.

And alerting every Tom, Dick, and Security Guard in the entire area to her actions. There was a part of her that wanted to do exactly that, to show these oh-so-superior-acting Imperials that she could undermine their attempts to keep her corralled with a bare flick of her wrist. When they came pouring into the suite, near to drowning in their own righteous indignation that she would dare attempt to compromise one of their systems, they would find her dressed for dinner and seated on one of the plush sofas. Idly scanning some text or the other on her data pad, smiling in sugary innocence. Showing them that she could come and go as she pleased, and that it was her desire to stay at the moment and indulge their glorious leader with his infuriating game.

Oh, how she yearned to do just that! To take back a measure of control from a situation that was quickly spiraling away from her.

Her fingers pulled away from the panel, though, curling into fists at her sides. She couldn't do it, and not for a lack of training or desire. But because it would gain her nothing and give _him_ everything. Security would be doubled—tripped if she read him correctly. What little freedom she had with just Lieutenant Strackton following closely at her heels would be lost as well. And the last thing she wanted was to replace that cold-eyed man with a squad of stormtroopers. No, she couldn't throw her skills into the Admiral's face, couldn't outright defy him.

She knew enough of him from these two past meetings to know that he would have her in whatever little box he wanted her in. And if she refused to go willingly, he would put her in that box by force.

The nerve… the arrogance… the… the strength! Stars above, the sheer power that he welded! How… why… What could have motivated her uncle to ever have crossed this man? How could he have put Mara and herself into this position? Whatever he had gained, she hoped it had been worth it. Or Thrawn could just save himself the trouble of hunting down Talon Karrde because she would do it for him!

And none of this was bringing her any closer to figuring out what she was going to wear to dinner.

Spinning away from the door, Ella stomped back towards that kriffing closet again. Her breath heaved in and out of her chest, small beads of sweat breaking out over her forehead. The room was stifling, too small to contain her. Never mind the fact that her brain recognized that the suite was perfectly fine, was larger than anything she had had off planet. Acknowledged that a space this size on a ship like the Chimaera probably housed six to nine men of Lieutenant rank. But to her, it wasn't just a room anymore. It was a symbol of her predicament, and the sum total of her present universe.

At least, until the Grand Admiral deigned to parcel out more for her. Like with the information she so desperately wanted.

_Miserly kriffing bastard_, she thought viciously. Not daring to speak that aloud, not with the knowledge that they watched her every move even now. Privacy, apparently, was only reserved for loyal Imperial officers and civilians. Since she was a no-named spacer living on the charity of their leader, dressing in his gifts and dancing to his kriffing tune, the last thing she could expect was a moment to herself. She had deluded herself if she thought she was a guest as he had stated.

No, she was a prisoner. And this was her torture.

Forced to wait on his convenience, to crawl on bended knee and beg scraps of information from his proverbial table. His promises were worse than any interrogation drug, his knowledge of her mother and father slowly breaking her down. And that conversation on the bridge—on the _BRIDGE_!—of his flagship with everyone watching? It had left her bare, stripped anew of layers she hadn't realized she'd had left to shed. Tongue-tied as she knew better than to treat a Captain, or in this case an Admiral, with less than the utmost respect before his own crew. Not even the worst pirate would have found her mouthing off to him before his team.

She'd left that conversation with her head spinning, her heart breaking. Torn between the memories of her parents. Her father would have never stood for anything of this manipulation, would have taken death instead of being led around with the promise of answers. Her father would have slugged the Admiral in his perfect face, and laughed when the stormtroopers burned him to the ground for it. Never sacrificing his freedom for anything.

But her mother?

She… well… she… Ella sighed, and leaned her head against doorjamb of the closet. The fight draining out of her. Her mother would have done as the Admiral had suggested. Maris Ferasi would have listened, absorbed, sorted through all the clues he had been dropping, and pieced together the whole story. Patiently, so infuriatingly patiently. Uncle Talon would have done the same thing.

"_Patience, Miss Ferasi. I would suggest that you follow your mother's example in the next few days and not jump to conclusions without first knowing all the facts."_

Ella sat down the edge of the bed, pressing her fingers to her eyes until the shaking passed. Until her temper was under control. Until tears of frustration and fear stoppered themselves behind her eyes, refusing to be shed. It was a long wait, and longer still before she rose to her feet and chose her outfit for dinner… and settled herself to study Cheunh.

* * *

She was pale, he noted, as she let him push her seat under the table. The pallor of her skin set off starkly by the formal gown of black and silver she'd selected. And in her eyes the storm raged, the seeds of promise he'd planted growing steadily, producing fruits of lightning that scourged her soul. Such things were amplified by the forced isolation, the sense of imprisonment. With her thoughts as her only companion, and Imperial training her only way to alleviate the boredom. It was an inelegant combination of techniques, but no less effective in their simplicity. He was the only one to grant her freedom. He, by his own orders, was the only one to have full conversations with her.

Forcing her reliance, her trust. Forcing her to come to the conclusions he wished, and all the while believing they were her own.

It did not please him, the torment visible in her gaze, nor the need to resort to such manipulations to earn her trust. But neither was it something he could spare her. Not in the limited time he had. If his calculations were correct, they would arrive at Talon Karrde's location a few hours or so behind Mara. Long enough for the smuggler to listen to the message Mara was delivering at his behest. Long enough for him to realize that his only option was to make this deal.

Long enough for the man to foolishly disregard that option and scramble his associates in a last ditch effort to flee. Only to run headlong into an Imperial task force in which he would lead, with Ella witnessing her Uncle's betrayal. Realizing that Talon would have left her in Imperial hands to torment and die.

He gauged the stress fractures in her defenses as he took his seat. Yes, she was nearly where she needed to be emotionally. One more gentle push, one more knife-edged slice, and she would be ready for the final blow that would end her former life.

"Before we continue with our previous discussion," he said in Cheunh as he placed his napkin in his lap, the serving droid pouring the wine. "I must warn you that what I reveal most likely will lead to more questions. And the answers to those questions may not bring you the closure you wanted."

She picked up her wine with fingers that only trembled slightly, taking a long swallow rather than a measured sip. It was good wine, strong wine, a vintage from a planet unknown to most of the galaxy at large. And chosen for that specific reason. He watched her frown, blink once, and set the glass down. The trembling was gone, the wine spreading through her, soothing the aching rage, the churning storm.

He lifted an eyebrow questioningly, asking without asking if she was alright. She blushed faintly, embarrassed by her attempt at nonchalance. "My life hasn't exactly been all about pleasantries, dresses and fancy dinners with Imperial royalty. So forgive my lack of surprise if what you tell me isn't going to fill my life with happiness and gratification."

Ah, they were back to this ground already. The brutish, unpolished commoner and the domineering, manipulative lord. Surrendering before the battle began, or merely seeing this conversation as a continuation of the confrontation upon the bridge. Considering the victory already his. Perhaps it was time to be gracious. To prove that surrendering to him wasn't death and defeat but merely a setting aside of misguided assumptions in order to earn greater rewards.

"I would hardly consider myself royalty, Miss Ferasi," he countered. "I am a servant of the Empire just as any, merely with more authority than most. Yet I still have those to which I am accountable."

"The Council of Moffs."

He paused in reaching for his wine, nodding once before taking the glass in hand. "Yes. I see that you have spent some time reading."

"Forewarned is forearmed," she replied, mirroring his motion. "Besides, I have limited access to outside holonet news. And I would rather stick this fork in my left eye than review the latest holodrama or news about it."

He permitted himself a soft laugh. "Then I think you chose the better of the options, Miss Ferasi. While the concept of blinding yourself forevermore to avoid a moment of misery is intriguing, I would think it rather hard to continue our dinner meetings that way."

She slumped back in her seat, swirling her wine. Unhinged by his refusal to be riled by her rudeness. But refusing to, as she had so callously put it, play his game. "You need to stop this," she said softly, switching back to Basic. "Stop being so damn gracious."

"Why?" he continued in Cheunh.

"Because it makes it hard for me to hate you." Again, in Basic.

"And why do you wish to hate me?"

"Excuse me?"

"It is a legitimate question," he replied just as smoothly, as easily, as if she had not made a personal declaration of war against him. "If I am to be hated, I would like to know the reason why, Miss Ferasi."

"Stop calling me that."

He paused one more, lifted an eyebrow. And again she blushed, staring down into her wine. Silent, and not out of a need to delay a reply, but closing down emotionally. Moving ever backward in their progress, regressing to the silence she had tried upon that first meeting between them, when Mara had given him not only the keys to taking down the Rebellion, but also the means to repay his vow to Maris. It had been a good day.

And this… this was proving a most gratifying evening. One more push was all it would take. One more twist of the conversation and she would be the villain and he the downtrodden. She the domineering and manipulative one and he the innocent. And when she left his presence, the isolation in her rooms and the forced contemplation would cement all his efforts.

One more twist, one more shatter. One more battle to be won swiftly and mercifully.

_Maris, she should have been mine. __**Ours.**__ But I will correct that flaw in Fortune's pattern, as I have done for so many others. This time it is for you, for me. And for her. For a life that was robbed from us._

"I can't do this," she muttered, rising to her feet and tossing her napkin onto her untouched plate. "I'm sorry. I can't. We aren't friends. We aren't business associates. _We _aren't anything. And I can't sit here at this table and pretend that we are. Not for anything, even my mother's memory. So keep your information. I'll find it through other means."

She turned her back on him, and he rose, unleashing the final blow he could deliver.

"Ownership of Parabolic Enterprises is divided between three individuals at this point in time," he called after her. Watching her come to a dead standstill. Watching the trembling return. Watching her realize that she was defenseless there in the center of the room without even the wine to hide behind. "At its original inception, it was so, with the split favoring your father by ten percent. Zabetta Erst and Sha'en Whistler each held thirty percent interest in the company. Upon your father's death, that controlling forty percent interest was to be passed to you. Considering you were beneath the age of majority to claim your inheritance, per your father's wishes, your inheritance was given to a guardian until you reached the age in which to claim it. Once you reached that age, five percent of your forty was to be given to that custodian as payment. Which would leave you with controlling interest at thirty-five percent."

He sat again, taking a bite of his meal and watching her without apology. "Even if you do not wish to dine with me, Miss Karrde, you will of course indulge me while I partake of my dinner. Even a servant of the Empire such as I must keep to a schedule, and that leaves precious little time for meals as it is."

She turned slowly, her face a mask of yearning and pain, one hand gripping her thick braid in a white-knuckled grasp. "Don't call me that, either," she whispered.

Another bite, another sip of wine to wash it down with. An eternity in which they stared at one another across the ruins of their private battleground. Both knowing it was over. Both knowing he had won. And still that damnable Karrde pride held her in check, kept her from coming to him as she should.

But that could be dealt with in time. Shattering the last of her resistance was not his to complete. No, she would shatter herself and come to him. She _must._

"Then how shall I address you?" he replied coolly, the edges of pleasantness blurring in his tone. "Please understand that I have been very patient with you out of respect for your mother's memory. Yet even I have limits, young miss. If you force me to be rude, then so be it. But understand that was your action and your decision, not mine."

"Ella," she whispered again. "Just call me Ella. Everyone else does."

"You will find out soon enough that I am not 'everyone else.' As you have put it, we are not friends. I would not address you in such a fashion any more than I would approve of your use of my core name without proper title before it."

"Then what—"

"Sullaren," he cut in, watching her start at the name. "It is your given name, your formal name. If you do not wish to be addressed by your father's family or your mother's, I will call you by your given name. You may wish to hate me, Sullaren, but I have no desire to return such animosity to you. Now, you may continue to stand there or you may join me again at the table. The decision is yours."

"As I was saying," he continued, picking up where he left off as the serving droid changed out the courses at the table. His tone as distant and politely cool as if he were giving a briefing rather than sharing a meal. "The named custodian of your inheritance was to claim five percent of it as fee for maintaining the trust. That same guardian managed to acquire Erst's twenty percent on his own, presumably buying out a portion of her control after her rather tragic and unexpected death. Effectively setting the playing field at twenty-five percent as the guardian's own interest, plus the thirty-five percent that was held in trust for you, for a grand total of sixty percent interest in Parabolic Enterprises. Which, I am sure you are aware, is not a small amount of wealth and influence in the shipping industry. The remaining ten percent of Erst's share was purchased by Whistler. So in the end, it left your guardian with sixty percent interest and Whistler with forty."

She had moved up to the table, standing next to him, eyes blazing with a rage that had nothing to do with her wished hatred for him. Hands gripping the edge tightly enough to make the dishes rattle faintly. Eager, hungry for her chance to reclaim her lost fortune and spread her vengeance for the years of poverty and pain.

And yet the hidden blade was coming, his final strike not yet embedded in her heart.

"Who?" she hissed. "Who is my guardian?"

He smiled faintly, leaning back in his own seat and regarding her. "The proper question is who _was _your guardian. You see, shortly after you disappeared, your guardian had you declared legally dead. With no one to challenge his claim, all your shares became his."

She leaned in, a position that would have seemed threatening from anyone else. A position that would have had anyone else dead in heartbeats. Save for the fact that he had orchestrated this one, pulling her to him as effectively as if he had a string tied to her waist.

"Who was my guardian?"

"No."

She jerked as if she had been slapped. "What?"

"The word is self-explanatory, is it not?"

Her eyes widened and she stepped back, disbelief on her face. "But you said you would tell me."

"Yes, I did. Only if you explained why you had chosen to wear the grey and burgundy ensemble to our meeting earlier today."

"So now you put a price on it?"

He shrugged a shoulder, took another bite. Took his time. Drank. And watched her pride start to crumble. "You were the one that rebuffed my offer of friendship, Sullaren. You, yourself, stated that we weren't anything. And I am not in the practice of giving away vital information for free."

She closed her eyes, spun away. Paced. Considered what little options she had. And he enjoyed his dinner, watching and learning. Gauging the strength needed to thrust his blade of truth into her heart without destroying her completely.

"My mother told me a story once," she said at last, turning back to him. "About meeting someone close to you. Someone she called Thrace or something. He was wearing those colors when they met. She said they were important for some reason, and so was the number eight."

"And you thought you could use a piece of my past to throw me off balance."

"Yes," she said, eyes wide again, as if she could not believe what she was saying. "And I would do it again in a hot minute, only this time I would go back and actually pay attention to what my mother had said."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't want to know about you!" she shouted. "My mother loved you more than my father. And I hated her for it. And I hated you for it. Fine, are you happy now? You know everything. Congratulations. You win and I surrender. I'll literally crawl if you ask me to right here and right now. Just stop these insipid games, already. Stop hurting me with your memories of my mother and just tell me what I want to know. Please, I'm so close to reclaiming the last of my father's legacy. Don't take it away. Just… don't."

There was no joy in him at her forfeiture. Not in the way she turned away, her shoulders shaking with the silent tears. There was no satisfaction as her pride peeled away in layers, sliding like discarded banners after a parade. But there was a sense of … beauty to it. As if examining a painting that had been cleaned of corrosive ash and dirt, seeing the masterwork hidden beneath. She had said they were not friends. She had claimed to hate him.

Neither was true. And that revelation had torn her apart on the inside, leaving her raw and unfinished. Ready to be polished into something magnificent.

She would be his masterpiece.

He rose and crossed those few steps to stand beside her. Close enough to touch, and yet his hands stayed behind his back.

_Maris, I have done it. She is mine, or will be soon. Just a little longer, a little more patience. _

"I loved her," he said quietly. "It is said that a man can care for many in his lifetime, but only have one real love. She was that love. Oh, yes," he said when she glanced up at him, smiling faintly. "I knew Maris would be that love the moment I laid eyes on her. But because of that love, I let her go. At the time, I could not give her what she wanted. I could not give her a home and children, at least not in the Republic. She would have been content, I believe, if I kept her on Csilla. But she would not have found happiness, and therefore would not have been the woman I loved for long."

"Why do you tell me this?"

"Do friends not share confidences, Sullaren? Do they not share each other's hardships? You have shared with me something I believe you had not dared admit to yourself until this moment."

He watched her ponder that, take it in and finally accept it as truth. And her confirmation, her act that proved that all his work had finally come to fruition, was when she reached a tentative hand behind him, taking his fingers in hers. He allowed it, let her draw his arm out before him. Locked his eyes on hers.

"Don't be lying to me," she whispered. "I beg you, don't be lying to me. On my mother's memory, swear it."

"I have never once lied to you, Sullaren."

"Ella."

"Ella," he agreed. "Though I must warn you, in the name of our friendship, what I will say next will hurt you more than you know."

"Please, I have to have the answer. I think… I think the not knowing is killing me more than knowing ever would."

His lips compressed in a thin line. "We shall see. Come, you should be seated before I tell you."

She did not resist when he lead her by their entwined fingers through a hidden door and into a private lounge area. She sat where he indicated, and accepted the glass of Corellian whiskey he gave her. Their meal was brought in to them, the setting more intimate than the formal dinner and yet less suggestive. Here they were not the Grand Admiral and his dinner companion. Here, they were… friends of a sort.

And after she had taken several swallows of her whiskey, he spoke two words… and with them drove that final emotional blade deep into her heart.

"Talon Karrde."


	6. Chapter 6 - Symmetry

A/N: An update! My apologies for taking so long to post this. Writing about Thrawn is so much easier than writing FOR Thrawn. There's a mindset that I have to immerse myself in that sometimes won't come to me. Thus, a lapse in updates. Hopefully I can update this one as rapidly as my others again!

This story is part of AgelessGrace66's song challenge. The inspiration for this chapter is "Book of My Life" by Sting.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

A chapter of his life was coming to a sudden close. Talon Karrde felt it as keenly as the felt the wind on his face, as he felt the threads of his empire slipping slowly from his grasp. He emerged from the darkness of the tunnel, setting boots onto the nondescript landing pad and hoping the warmth of the wan sunshine would melt the cold certainty of finality that gripped his heart. There was no reassurance to be found in the life-sustaining luminescence, just as he knew he was running out of safe havens in which to hide from Grand Admiral Thrawn.

Karrde smiled at the thought, shaking his head with a rueful chuckle devoid of all humor. This… this feeling of hopelessness. This was the punishment that Thrawn wished to inflict upon him the most, though it would not be the least by any stretch of the imagination. He'd known it would come down to this, to the running and the fearing and the breakdown of the securities he'd come to cherish, the moment Mara had dropped them from hyperspace right on top of the crippled New Republic X-wing fighter. Had known deep down that he was authorizing the end of his life as he knew it by accepting the rebel Jedi onto the _Wild Karrde_.

He'd had no other option, he reflected, listening with half an ear as Mara transmitted the "All Clear" codes and was granted permission to land. Calling the Imperials to come and take Luke Skywalker off of his hands may have deflected this moment for a time, but it would not have been by much. Especially after claiming that his organization had been too busy with various shipping schedules to help in the hunt for Skywalker. Miraculously stumbling upon the Jedi was not an excuse a man like Thrawn would have accepted on face value. Karrde, himself, certainly would not have.

Eventually the Admiral would get around to poking at whatever cover story they had come up with, and when he did, there would be more questions that Karrde cared to answer.

Turning Skywalker over to the New Republic would have been equally as disastrous, eliminating Karrde's status as a neutral in what was left of the Rebellion against the Empire. Again, earning him the disfavor of Thrawn for his troubles. Letting Skywalker slowly die in the emptiness of space would have earned him equal animosity from the so-called New Republic. Once more, it was a target he did not wish on his head, nor the heads of his associates.

There had been nothing he could have done to avoid this outcome, this situation he found himself within. Nothing but accept the cards dealt him and play them to the best of his abilities.

Still, knowing that did little to neither soften the sting nor erase the tension between his shoulder blades as the _Etherway_ dropped in from orbit. There was an empty finality in the air, an intangible ache in his chest. A sensation of half-finished business that would never see its completion. His smile grew, taking on a sardonic flavor, as he imagined Lady Fate running out of her celestial ink in regards to this chapter in his life. She'd be fetching a new bottle soon, a new color perhaps, to begin writing the next installment of his life.

The only question remaining was how much space Mara Jade and Ella Ferasi would take up in that new chapter.

Talon gave himself a mental shake, schooling his face into lines of strict neutrality. It had briefly crossed his mind that Mara and Ella had simply vanished of their own accord, taking the _Etherway_ as a form of severance pay. Given the way Thrawn was laying hands on members of his organization, and given the rumors of what a full-blown Imperial mind-sifting could do to a person, it made logical sense to cut losses and run. Normally he would have attributed such actions to wonton stupidity. If an organization with as many vast contacts as Karrde had at his disposal could not protect them, how would they survive out there on their own, cut off from everything?

However, this was Mara Jade. This was Ella Ferasi. Two women that had, against all odds, scratched out an existence on the fringe of society, hidden from the eyes of Empire, Republic, and smuggling groups alike until they were ready to be seen. They were not stupid enough to attempt to hide and wait out a Grand Admiral's anger, or throw themselves on what little mercy he possessed. They would not have run, would not have abandoned him without the courtesy of an explanation. And certainly not in a battered cargo freighter like the _Etherway_.

Still… the wind whispered to him that something was off, that the three day delay in returning was more than simply being cautious. Such thoughts did not quiet the poetry in his soul, nor the feeling that the culmination of this chapter of his life was about to play out in dramatic fashion.

His fingertips traced delicately over the blaster hilt at his side, absently running over the inscriptions. Ella had purchased it for him, had it custom made to his specifications. He was the last of her blood family, and as much as it cut him to bring his niece into his world, it was the only way he could keep an eye on her. She was very much her father's daughter, and Gaemril Karrde was never known for doing what he ought. So was it when he had found Ella on some backwater world, starved and working as a halfway decent mechanic.

She should have been safely in the University on Correlia.

If he was any sort of honorable man he would have left her stranded on Correlia even now, leaving orders that no one with a ship should so much as glance in her direction or suffer his anger. Leaving her no other choice than to go back to the University, meet some honorable man, and live a good quiet life.

The _Etherway_ was nearly complete in its landing cycle, rotating its girth to allow the hatchway to match up with the exit tunnel of the landing pit. Talon held his breath as the landing ramp lowered. The feeling of unease rose in him. There was a hesitation to Mara's step as she appeared at the top of the ramp, a slight almost invisible burr to her rhythmic stride that belied her confidence. His hand gripped the butt of his blaster on reflex.

On useless, empty reflex. Finality was written in the sky above him, in the pock-marked dirty permacrete pad beneath his feet. In the unnatural silence and the rapid beating of his heart. Yes, life as he knew it was about to come to a sudden and dramatic close, announced by this fiery redhead that had been the harbinger of change when she'd mysteriously dropped into his life those years before. Beginning and ending with her. As he always knew it would.

He could appreciate the ironic symmetry.

"Welcome home, Mara," he called with a smoothness he did not feel, eyes searching the ramp behind her. "You're a bit late. Where is Ella?"

"I wound up making a little detour," She said grimly, dogging his question as she stopped in front of him.

"That can happen," Talon replied neutrally, almost willing his niece to make her appearance so his heart could climb out of his throat and back into its chest where it belonged. "Was there trouble? Is that what Ella's doing right now, closing down some spot-rigged systems?"

Mara closed her eyes slowly, the glint of tears glittering on her eyelashes like a thousand tiny futures that would never be. "Talon, I—"

He smiled softly, truly, and with no small amount of self-pity. "It's okay, Mara. I forgive you."

He pulled his blaster free, shoving Mara to the ground in the same motion as the first sonic boom of a TIE-fighter screamed in the atmosphere overhead. The sound waves knocked him flat, distorted his vision. Just not enough to hide the image of a prison shuttle landing next to the _Etherway_, spilling its white-armored soldiers like gurga bugs fleeing their cocoons upon entering the second stage of their lives. A faint smile touched his lips at the analogy, and when Mara, herself, took the blaster from his hands, he felt no anger towards her.

Another chapter in his life had reached its dramatic conclusion. The next had yet to be written.

* * *

The pillows weren't symmetrically straight.

Ella stared at plush fabric-filled decorations, wondering idly why her brain had chosen that moment to latch onto the most frivolous of things. There was an Imperial Grand Admiral not two feet away from her, his back to her as he studied the painting on the wall, his glass of wine held gently to his side. She sat as a prisoner upon his flagship, an unwilling dinner companion at his table, wearing rich clothing gifted to her from his hand. And she had listened to his words, enraptured with horrid fascination, as he issued with the professional detachment of a career officer pronouncements of truth that had utterly destroyed her entire sense of self.

And all she could bring herself to focus on was the fact that the pillows on the opposite couch weren't perfectly straight.

They were mocking her, those pillows, taunting her with their careless irregularity. Her entire world burned, reduced to hot, glowing embers in the time it had taken him to speak two words, and these inanimate objects were allowed to be thoughtlessly misaligned. It was obscene, hateful and insulting. Irrational as it was, she could not stand the sight of it anymore than she could stand the knowledge that even though their universe was slightly out of order, _those pillows_ were still on their couch. _They_ were still functioning as they should. _They_ still had purpose. That, more than anything else, made her want to throw back her head and shriek.

Stupid, thoughtless, insipid pillows had a purpose. While she, a living breathing sentient being, capable of complex thought and feeling, was now adrift in a galaxy that no longer made sense.

It wasn't right.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Her life wasn't supposed to have been like _this_!

And yet she could not shriek, though not from any kind of perimeters imposed upon her by her imprisonment. The sound simply would not emanate from her throat, the air necessary to produce the vocal release of her pain refused entry by lungs that would not expand. There was no way to expel the emotions contained beneath her skin, at least no way that would lead to anything productive. She could crush the wine glass in her fingers, let the delicate crystalline shards cut into her palm, the liquid stain the cushions beneath her. But what would that accomplish other than a trip to the infirmary and having to explain just how shards of glass ended up in her hand. Worse, she would have to explain her actions to the rooms' only other occupant.

Alternately, she could hurl the glass at those offending pillows, let it shatter there and stain those cushions. But again, what was the benefit of that? How would that help her, other than supply a much needed split second of vindication to watch something other than her life shatter into incandescent pieces. There would still be a need for explanations, and she wasn't quite certain she was ready to give them. She was not quite certain she could open her mouth at this point and expect any sound at all to escape her lips.

For how did one explain that their life had ground inexplicably to a halt at such a young age, that the softly spoken words of the one man she had been taught since birth would never hurt her, would never lie to her, had in effect dealt her the harshest blow imaginable without laying a finger to her. He'd cut her open wide, and now had the grace to let her bleed her poisons without a witness.

She briefly considered throwing the glass at him, wondering if she would see it shatter against his back before his alien bodyguard physically finished what he had verbally began. Let her blood flow with the wine to mingle with all her broken hopes and dreams and sense of self upon the durasteel floor.

But again, whispered the tiny part of her mind not wrapped in thick shock, the part of her mind that had once spoken with Talon's voice, what would that gain her? What profit would be made from her spilled blood, from his spilled wine? Who would benefit from shattered glass upon the floor? No one, whispered that voice, the one that now carried a smoothly modulated quality to it. And without a profit of either money or power, it wasn't worth the waste.

It took her three tries to set the glass down without breaking it. "You are in my head," she whispered, letting hands that trembled press against her eyes.

She heard him turn, could damn near hear him nod. "Yes."

One eye opened, peeking between fingers wet with unnoticed tears. "Yes?" she echoed, surprised at how hollow and empty her voice sounded. Surprised that it wasn't enveloped with red-hot rage. "That is all you have to say?"

He took a measured sip of his wine, his eyes steadily staring into hers. "The answer is self explanatory, Ella. Do we need to start at the beginning already?"

She closed her eyes, shook her head, buried her face into her hands and then drug those hands through her hair. Her hands formed fists, tugging slightly. "Basic," she said. "I need you to speak Basic. I… I don't know enough Cheunh to continue. I can't focus enough to continue."

"No."

The word was spoken in Cheunh, as simply as if she hadn't confessed herself on the verge of a full on breakdown.

"But I can't—"

"You can," he cut in, continuing in that language. "Look at me, Ella, when I speak to you. I am not father. I am not human, and though I loved your mother deeply, I do not possess of all the human qualities she assigned me during our brief time together. I will not coddle you as humans choose to do to their young. Thusly, I will not indulge your need to retreat to comforts such as Basic until you feel you are ready to proceed. The galaxy will not wait for you to catch your proverbial breath before it launches its next attack in your direction. You must learn to assimilate, adapt and respond as quickly as you blink."

His footsteps seemed to echo off the walls, an imperfect sound to the immense presence that was his aura. Her eyes drifted back to those thrice-damned pillows, seeking comfort in her rage, in the deficiency of Fate. Afraid suddenly that she'd drown in his presence.

Afraid of him, truly afraid of him, for the first time ever.

"You are doing well," He took a seat next to her, ignoring the way she shied away, the way she scooted back quickly. "I saw the desire in you to waste my wine."

She could not hide the cringe. "Are you in my mind?"

He smiled slightly. "Not as a Jedi would be, Ella. I am in your mind by virtue of the fact that you know I am correct. Tell me why you did not give into your anger."

"There was no point to it."

"Explain."

Her eyes drifted shut before she remembered his admonition, and opened rapidly again. "There's nothing to explain—"

"There is always something to explain," he amended. "That is your first lesson. Always be prepared to explain your thoughts when asked."

"Lesson? Are you my teacher now?"

"As your mother was to me once, so shall I repay the favor. Now, answer the question, please."

Ella glanced down at her hands, seeing the trap for the first time and knowing it was too late to escape it. He had her in his hand, had had her since the moment Mara made the decision to offer him the Katana Fleet instead of trying to run. If she gave in, explained to him what she thought and felt now, she would do it for the rest of her life. He might as well put her in a uniform and tell her to start addressing him as "sir" from that point forward.

Yet here was always a choice, or so he had once told her, even if the selection wasn't present at that moment. Just as there were always consequences to those choices.

"I would gain no advantage in expressing my anger at this moment," she said at length, eyes drifting to those pillows again. "I know better than to bottle it up for long. I need to find a creative outlet for it, something that will translate into a gain across the accounting grid instead of a loss."

"And so you shall," he replied, reaching over to touch her cheek gently, his fingertips coming away wet with her tears. "I will teach you how, so long as you accept my terms. If not, I will find a place for you elsewhere. The decision, as always, is yours. That I will not take from you as other have. Let that be your foundation, your core truth."

It made sense, the words he spoke. And she knew deep down that he had been truthful with her in every word he had spoken in every one of their conversations. Just as she knew that every conversation had been a battle in the war for her loyalty, every moment a strike at her defenses, until at last they had reached the conclusion of their war. He had laid the terms of surrender before her, allowing her to continue in ignorance or give way to the truth.

It was an imperfect ending, an elegant solution to the wreck of lies than her life had been built upon. He offered purpose, flawed though it may be in the beginning. More than that, he offered the tools needed to pave the defects from that purpose until her life was as it should have been. Until she was no longer envious of pillows haphazardly placed on a sofa.

She turned to him, and made her choice.


End file.
